


Heita ok Víti

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Norse Religion & Lore, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Execution, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fighting Kink, Hand Jobs, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Old Norse, Oral Sex, Other, Past Child Abuse, Praise Kink, Psychological Torture, Religious Fanaticism, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Torture, hey look mom i found a way to smash my hyperinterests together!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 13:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: When Ragnarök comes, the wolves will howl, the ravens will call, and very few will make it to the other side of the carnage.A priest and his family believe that their people are destined to survive the endtimes. A raiding party sent by the jarl is inclined to disagree.





	Heita ok Víti

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been messing around with this AU for awhile, and it's p much a product of my current mouth-frothing obsession with Far Cry 5 crossed with my enduring academic obsession with Vikings. It's about as far into the niche as anything can get, and it's so self-indulgent that I kind of want to scream.
> 
> I won't bore anyone with too many particulars but just a few quick points!  
> -The title of this fic means 'Prayer and Punishment' in Old Norse, because I like Jane Austen-esque titles. 'Heiti' also can mean 'to give a name to'. The title of the first chapter means 'shipwreck'.  
> -All characters names are Old Norse equivalents for immersion purposes. I did a quick poll on Tumblr to see if people were cool with the idea, and the overwhelming majority seemed to think it was fine! I've never done anything like this before, so if it gets too confusing or distracting, pls let me know. I tried my best to make them sound like the original name or have close to the same meaning. There's also a link to a name guide I made in the notes at the bottom. o7  
> -Some of the Norse-specific letters have been switched out with an English equivalent to help make it easier to read. So Þ, þ are replaced with 'th' and Ð, ð are replaced with 'd'.  
> -Kodi is my female Deputy (Cody, yay!), but also based on a poll, there are probably going to be a few more protagonists in here like an f!dep, m!dep, and nb!dep. This might change depending on how the narrative goes or response or idk. Kodi's here more to provide a better background of Viking society with a pre-established character, because I need a nerd outlet.  
> -Like I said, this is self-indulgent as hell! I'm honestly writing this as much for myself as anyone else! There are probably going to be errors (like Icelandic staves used in 9th century Norway) but I just hope someone out there likes it, too. <3

_Viltu, at ek, Valföðr! vel framtelja forn spjöll fíra,  
þau er fremst um man._

_\---_  
  
Thou wilt, Valfather, that well I relate  
Old tales I remember of men long ago.

- _Völuspá - 'The Prophecy of the Seeress',_ Stanza 1

* * *

 

 _Western Norway, 890 A.D.  
  
_ The ship sails through complete darkness on all sides, like sailing through the night sky without the benefit of starlight. The sea is too still, just an endless sheet of black glass. A late night mist has devoured the entire shoreline, and is so heavy that the top of the mast seems to fade into the night. The only two lights come from the torchbearers on the fore and aft ends of the ship, and even they look nervous. One lookout, a young man named Prútt with hair slicked back with seawater, anxiously paces the deck, weaving his way through the oarsmen and the passengers. He pauses, peers into the fog, and swears before trying his luck on another end.  
  
Tension fills the whole ship and threatens to submerge it before the water can even lap over the deck. The sole raiding party huddles close under the mast, almost knee to knee. There isn’t much conversation to be had, between their oncoming duty and the uncertainty of their journey. They’re all armed, some with quivers and bows, some with swords at their hips, and all with at least a dagger to defend themselves. No one is foolish enough to go into this unarmed.  
  
Each person onboard also wears a single band of braided silver around their right arm; a badge of honor and loyalty to a jarl. The oldest in the raiding party is a tired man with graying, receding hair and a long mustache. The band around his arm is the most detailed, with golden wire woven through the silver. In the dim light of the torch, he looks almost double his years, the exhaustion carved into his face like its been gouged into wood.  
  
When a shout comes up from one side of the ship—an oarsman who’s spotted something—the older man sighs like he knows what’s coming next.  
  
Torchlight crawls over a strange structure rising out of the water like an angry spirit. There, clamoring out of the black waves, is the wreckage of a ship, its planks dyed dark with seaspray and rot. The prow splits the waves with the worn figurehead of a dragon snarling in defiance of its drowning. But mounted on the prow is a mass of driftwood and flotsam arranged into the loose shape of a gigantic man, arms spread wide as if in greeting. On its chest is a single plank of wood that rattles in the wind. Once their ship gets close enough, the torchlight illuminates what looks like a strangely-spoked wheel painted in white on the plank.  
  
One of the party, a young woman with copper-red hair plaited on both sides of her head like a pair of fox tails, squints through the gloom. “What is that?” she whispers, as though something in the darkness is going to overhear her.  
  
No one answers her right away, the oarsmen pointedly looking away from the figure as though its bad luck. Another young woman with hair in a long black braid over one shoulder sneers up at it. “We’re at Fodirseyrr—Father’s Shoal. That _thing_ is supposed to be him, Kodi.”  
  
The ship quietly passes by the remains of the shipwreck, the odd effigy slowly slipping back into darkness and mist. Silence and the soft sounds of the sea remain in its wake. Kodi can’t help the shudder that goes through her, as though she’s seen something she wasn’t meant to see.  
  
“How much further, Prútt?” the older man asks the lookout.  
  
“From here? Not even a full sea-mile. If it wasn’t for the fog, we’d see it by now,” Prútt replies.  
  
Normally, the declaration of land would be cause for celebration, but the solemn atmosphere weighs as heavy as lead. The older man grunts before turning to another member of the party, one of the warriors with an intricate woven golden band around his neck, along with the silver band on his arm. He’s the only one who doesn’t seem completely affected by the funerary air that’s taken the rest of the ship. If anything, he seems irritated by it.  
  
“Not too late to turn back around, Bjarkan,” the older man says thoughtfully. “With the fog this thick, they haven’t seen us yet.”  
  
Bjarkan snorts derisively, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not going back to the jarl just to tell him that we ran scared from a priest. We have our orders, and I’ll be damned if I go back on them just because a piece of wood sticking out of the sea made you nervous.”  
  
Jördis, the black-haired woman, seems to take offense to that, sitting up and taking in a breath like she’s prepared to give him an earful. But one gesture from the older man makes her sullenly sit back. Behind her, Prútt snorts and pats her shoulder as he passes by to check on the other side of the ship.  
  
“Besides,” Bjarkan goes on, gesturing down to the older man’s shield. Emblazoned across the worn, sword-beaten surface is the image of a fierce white horse, rearing up with its mouth open. “They’ll remember you for this. Hvitrhestr, the greatest of the jarl’s military chiefs, taking down an anarchic priest. The skalds will tell that story for a long time.”  
  
Hvitrhestr almost laughs, but the mood of the ship darkens everything, and it tapers off into a sigh. “You make it sound easy,” he replies, looking down at his shield with a clouded expression. “I’m telling you now, Jósepr isn’t going to just roll on his back for us. He won’t, and neither will his family or his followers.”  
  
“He’s just one man,” Bjarkan retorts.  
  
“With an army,” Jördis interjects. “There’s a reason that the jarl sent all of us to apprehend him instead of just one or two.”  
  
Bjarkan smiles, but it’s thin and impatient. “Apparently he thought it would be a simple enough mission that he sent some of his most inexperienced.”  
  
He looks pointedly at Kodi and a few of the people sitting behind her; the ones the jarl selected with no clear deliberation or reason. Some of them are young enough that the only battles they’ve experienced are through the poems of skalds or through songs sung in the winter. Most of them don’t have a single sword-scar on their shields.  
  
“They have enough,” Hvitrhestr replies, drawing Bjarkan’s attention away from them. Despite his words, he gives his group a look of pity. Their armbands still have the shine of newness, clear signs that they were scraped up at the last moment.  
  
Before Bjarkan can argue again, Jördis stands up at the same time that Prútt runs to the prow. Out in the distance, the orange lights of fires appear through the mist, faintly flickering like ghostlight. Jördis immediately begins giving orders to the oarsmen, but deliberately keeps her voice down to keep their element of stealth. Half the oarsmen hold their oars up while the other half keep rowing, halving their speed to ease their approach. Hvitrhestr is the next to stand, mounting his white horse shield on his arm while the remaining party turns their full attention to him. Before he speaks, he looks down at Bjarkan.  
  
“Last chance, Bjarkan,” he says, warning woven through each word.  
  
Bjarkan smiles like he’s appeasing a child. He shakes his head.  
  
Hvitrhestr sighs and nods before looking at the party. “Alright, you all know the plan by now, but I’ll say it again. We’re not aiming for a fight here. The jarl only wants Jósepr and no one else. We’re doing this as quickly and as peacefully as we can. Do _not_ engage his people unless you’re either outright attacked or I give the order. We go into his hall, capture him, and bring him back to the ship. Nothing more than that. If we fail, we come back to the ship immediately. Am I understood?”  
  
There’s a faint murmur, and a few among them put their right fists over their hearts.  
  
It’s about all that can be expected of them.  
  
Hvitrhestr grunts and casts one last look over them before he turns to where Prútt and Jördis are standing at the prow, looking out at the black waters and ghostly fires on the shore. “Prútt! Jördis! Bring us in,” he orders.  
  
The two of them exchange a glance, but they do what they’re told.  
  
\- - -  
  
Kodi has seen battles before, regardless of what Bjarkan might believe. Her sword isn’t new, and the dents in the iron aren’t from rough handling. She’s new to the jarl’s court, new to Vænnland, but not new to war. She prickles with Bjarkan’s dismissal, and so stands beside Hvitrhestr as the ship slowly comes into the narrow bay of Jósepr’s compound, loftily named Idavöllr. For something named for the meeting place of the gods, it looks absolutely miserable.

The misty lights resolve themselves into small fires that dot the shoreline. Kodi can see the vague shapes of some of the priest’s followers surrounding the fires. Only some of them are cooking or warming themselves. The others simply stand nearby and stare at the ship.  
  
Black shapes become buildings; longhouses hastily pieced together from mud, stone, turf, and logs. Kodi can see the faint glow of a blacksmith’s forge, and the long strips of fencing of animal pens. In any other circumstance, it would come across like a normal town, save for the strange building that rises up higher than the others. It appears like a white gash in the darkness; a carefully-constructed structure that at first glance appears to be a temple. Its roof slopes up at a high pitch, forming a second structure that might be a watchtower. The entire building is painted as white as a bone, and a more fearful thought flits through Kodi’s mind that it seems to be the kind of building that would be found in Hel’s halls of the underworld.  
  
She hears Hvitrhestr curse to himself before Prútt says, “Damn _Illr._ ” — _Evil_ , he calls them.  
  
Bjarkan turns to him with his eyebrows arched. “ _Illr_?”  
  
Hvitrhestr sighs and adjusts the strap of his shield. “They call this place Idavöllr, thinking it’s some kind of holy place where the gods will come after Ragnarök is over so they can rebuild the world. Some kind of end of the world talk that Jósepr uses to get people to follow him, saying they’re all chosen to be there.”  
  
Prútt snorts derisively. “So they call themselves Idavöllrfólk—the people that are gonna survive when everything burns down and there’s nothing left. Everyone else just cuts out the middle and calls them Illr, which they are.”  
  
Bjarkan seems to think the explanation is funny, judging by the grin on his face. Kodi imagines he might think the whole thing is very provincial, the kind of thing that people come up with when they don’t mingle with society very much. But he doesn’t _get_ it, even after the jarl gave his commands and his reasons. People have disappeared into Idavöllr; people who wouldn’t have typically left their families for such a long time. Others have gone willingly, but the mounting evidence of something sinister occurring has gotten impossible to ignore in the jarl’s court. Then, one of the freemen of the jarl’s court reported a daughter going missing, and a bloody cloak washed up on the shore just down the coast from Idavöllr only a week later.  
  
With the bone-white tower of Idavöllr looming in the night, even Kodi can’t find anything funny or light about the situation at all.  
  
There’s a single dock built out into the black water of the bay, but only one ship occupying it. It’s a well-built warship, stained as dark as the shipwreck on the shoal. Its figurehead is a massive raven, wings outstretched and beak opened wide in a silent cry. The sails are drawn up for the moment, but Kodi can see that they’re black as well. Only one shield is mounted on the gunwale; a pitch black shield marked with the same white spoked wheel painted on the effigy’s chest. There are places for at least a dozen more shields just on one side alone.  
  
There are other ships as well, all beached on the shore. Most of them are small fishing vessels or ships meant for no more than six oarsmen. What’s more alarming is the sheer number of them—at least twenty ships are beached, and it’s no stretch of the imagination to picture that number coming after a single ship. It’s any wonder how the shipwreck on the shoal happened.  
  
Prútt, Jördis, and the rest of the ship’s crew quietly line their ship up with the dock. No one is waiting for them, but they’ve hardly gone unnoticed. Everyone from the shore to the line of buildings seems to have stopped whatever they were doing just to stare, and it might be one of the more unnerving experiences Kodi’s ever had. They look like well-painted statues, frozen in place with wide, dead eyes. Most of them are clothed in white or gray cloaks, but what they wear underneath seem to be uniformly filthy. All of them have long, unbound hair that is just as unwashed as the rest of them.  
  
“What in Hel’s name,” whispers Jördis as Prútt vaults himself over the gunwale with two other oarsmen in order to tie the ship off.  
  
Hvitrhestr grunts in agreement. “Still not too late to turn around,” he repeats to Bjarkan.  
  
“Let’s just get this over with,” Bjarkan replies in irritation.  
  
There’s only slight commotion in getting the party off the ship. Most of the oarsmen elect to remain behind, and Hvitrhestr doesn’t attempt to urge them to reconsider. He mumbles something about being able to leave quicker if there are already rowers at the ready before he stands before the small assembly.  
  
“Alright, Prútt, Jördis, and Kodi are with me. The rest of you stay by the doors in case we need to make an escape. Remember, do _not_ draw your weapons unless you have to.”  
  
Another murmur of agreement, and then Hvitrhestr leads them down the dock to the packed earth path leading to the temple. Kodi is only a few steps behind him, falling in beside Jördis who gives her the closest thing to a reassuring smile that she can for the situation.  
  
Then, the formerly still and silent followers begin to rouse as if they’ve been released from a spell. Gaunt, harrowed faces turn angry, and shouts begin on all sides.  
  
“Leave! Don’t come back!” one woman shrieks.  
  
“You don’t belong here!” shouts another.  
  
The tension that’s been present since they left the jarl’s docks begins to mount until it feels like it’s going to snap over their heads. Kodi takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and she smells woodsmoke and the thick, eye-watering stench of human and animal filth. She chooses to focus on the shield strapped to Prútt’s back, a plain dark green interspersed with thin stripes of black. But she can’t help but look up at the guttering torches held in the hands of the angrily frantic people around them, at the pale gleam of swords and daggers that she’s beginning to see. No one moves to attack them, but it feels though at any moment, they might.  
  
They get closer to the temple, rising stark and cold like moonlight against the black sky. The packed earth path gives way to a road made of painted wooden planks. Each plank is a different color, albeit faded and chipped. In front of her, Prútt makes a sound like half a laugh. “I think it’s supposed to be the Bifröst,” he says to Jördis. “But I don’t think it’s leading to any gods.”  
  
The painted road takes them by a set of longhouses that are of far better quality than the ones by the shore. They’re of a sturdier build, meant to last longer than the others. They’re painted white like the temple, although it seems that no one has thought to touch up the paint. Most of it has flecked off or faded from the rain and sea air. What remains is very stark lettering above each door, runes painted black on narrow planks. Kodi passes by one reading _Vanaheim_ , and another reads _Jotunheim._ There are eight in all, one for each world in their stories; only Asgard is missing.  
  
Or, more accurately, the temple might be Asgard.  
  
By the time they reach the front of the temple, a crowd of dirty, furious people has begun to form around them, shouting insults and threats. No one has drawn a sword yet, but Kodi sees pommels flash under their cloaks, or quivers on some of their backs.  
  
The party stops just before the doors, and Kodi looks up to take in the sheer size of the structure. Carvings surround the door, depicting all manner of animals climbing up and down the knots of a trunk of a massive tree. Wolves slink around bounding stags, and ravens caw down at cats clinging to the branches. An enormous carving of a dragon winds its way around the base of the entire temple, its jaws clamped around the roots of the tree, while another stretches out around the eaves of the roof. The peak of the roof forms just under the base of the watchtower, and the peak is decorated with a pair of wolves crossed over one another, howling up at the sky. They seem to match the sounds of the low, droning chant coming from inside the temple.  
  
Kodi doesn’t have much more time to observe the structure or to make out the words of the chant before Bjarkan walks up to her, pushing a length of tarred rope into her hands. His face is now serious, possibly owing to the steadily building presence of the priest’s followers, who look like they’re only one altercation away from an outright riot. His voice is low when he speaks. “When I give the signal, you tie his wrists. And you tie them _tight_ , you understand?”  
  
She nods, and doesn’t have the thought to ask why it has to be her. Jördis puts a reassuring hand on Kodi’s shoulder. “You’re going to be fine,” she says warmly.  
  
Then, Hvitrhestr looks around once more before he opens the doors.  
  
The chant stops abruptly as firelight and smoke spill out like molten gold. Kodi’s first impression is that it isn’t so much a temple as it is a jarl’s palace, or a mead hall. The fire is set in a long raised hearth, and the wave of smoke that reaches them smells heavily of pine. Iron braziers and mounted torches burn around the room as well, so the warmth of the room is the second thing she registers. Long benches and low chairs line the walls, and there isn’t a single bench that is unoccupied by more of the white-cloaked followers.  
  
At the very least, the followers in the temple are have better hygiene, and some of them have their long hair bound back with straps of leather or cords. They look at the party with expressions ranging from complete distrust to outright hostility. One man even has the pommel of his sword in a white-knuckled grip, the muscles in his arms twitching as he waits for someone to make the wrong move towards their leader.  
  
Like the outside, the interior of the temple is just as beautifully carved. Wooden panels are covered in images of gilded boats sailing across seas made of silver, or beasts with dazzling pelts of every color chasing each other through deep green forests. Near the head of the room, there is a panel of Sleipnir, the eight-legged horse, racing across a field of pure gold that has been carefully worked to look like a field of barley. The opposing panel features Huginn and Muninn, Odin’s ravens representing thought and memory, flying low over a group of armed men seated around an empty silver throne.  
  
Every figure in the panels face the room’s end, the high seat, which is backed by a panel featuring an enormous white tree, its limbs stretching to the ceiling. And there stands Jósepr, the rogue priest.  
  
With all of the rumors that have been passed around about him, Kodi finds herself almost unimpressed. The stories brought to the jarl’s palace have painted him to be a man twice his size, with eyes as cold as the stones of Hel, a booming voice that could shake the rafters of Valhalla, and with various attributes including but not limited to the power to speak to animals, to make rivers of fire burst from the walls at a word, or to bring lightning down from the skies. The man before her could pass undetected in any town or village, and if they brought him to the jarl’s court, no one would recognize him.  
  
He’s only clothed from the waist down, opting to wear a pair of simple, clean breeches. His skin from the waist up, however, is covered in tattoos that swirl over his skin like an animal’s pelt. They strongly resemble the carvings from the doorway, with any number of animals crossing his skin. The pair of ravens swoop below his collarbones, while a wolf crawls up his left side, its claws falling just short of a long, vicious scar that follows the bottom of his ribcage. Runes are scattered across his skin as well, although Kodi is too far away to see what they say.  
  
His hair is dark and bound up in a simple knot on top of his head, and his beard is just as dark, well-combed and trimmed. Calm blue eyes gaze back at their group with something like expectation, as if he knew they were coming all along. Two thin lines of gold are painted under each eye, catching the light of the fires around the room. He turns around to face the wall behind the high seat, gazing up at the tree, and Kodi sees the spoked wheel from the effigy and the ship tattooed on his back.  
  
“My children,” he says, and although his voice doesn’t shake any rafters, it carries with perfect clarity over everyone. “A change has come upon our hall. We have known that it would come for some time now, and the day is upon us.”  
  
Bjarkan steps forward first, insistent and aggressive, while Hvitrhestr puts out one hand to motion for him to slow down.  
  
“Long have we prepared,” Jósepr continues, turning back around to face them with his arms stretched towards the ceiling, not unlike his effigy. “When the long days of winter never end, and the sun is swallowed up forever. Did I not say it would come, the days when brother kills brother, and no innocent person is spared? When these men would come and try to take me from you?”  
  
This seems to set Bjarkan on edge, and he surges forward like an angry tide. “Enough!” he snarls. “Jósepr of Norway, by the order of the jarl of Vænnland and by my right as officer of the king’s law, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of the kin of a freeman of the jarl’s court, and the suspected murder of a landholding freeman.”  
  
Jósepr looks at them calmly even as his followers go from agitated to infuriated. The towering space of the hall fills with shouts of anger, and Kodi watches as two men and a woman step onto the high seat platform, keeping their distance from Jósepr. She doesn’t have time to observe them before the shouting match reaches a peak and Hvitrhestr is commanding Bjarkan to take his hand off his sword.  
  
Then, Jósepr raises his hands and his people fall to perfect silence, like hounds waiting for their master’s command. “Go,” is all he says, as whisper-soft and calm as he can. “The All-Father will not allow me to be taken. All will be well.”  
  
Stunned, Kodi watches as the followers silently turn and file out of the hall, some with their hands clasped in front of their chests, their heads bowed. Only a few spare the party venomous glares, but they all move out in perfect obedience.  
  
Only Jósepr and his family remain.  
  
“Hard is it on earth, this mighty whoredom,” he says, his voice steady and firm like a stone in a thrashing sea. “It is a time of axes, it is a time of swords, when shields are split apart.”  
  
He pauses and looks down at the shield on Hvitrhestr’s arm, and there is a strange light in his eyes.  
  
“A time of wind, a time of wolves. No man shall spare another,” he continues, his eyes glancing over each of them, until they settle on Kodi last. “And within the ranks of the gods, I saw the Valkyries assemble,” he says.  
  
A chill runs through her, and Kodi tries to look everywhere except his eyes, which are bruising in their intensity. She looks up to his family, surrounding him on three sides.  
  
Kodi’s eyes are drawn to the one on her left. In the dim light, it’s difficult to make out his exact expression, but she has the distinct impression that he’s glowering at her, watching her with unblinking eyes like a hawk sighting its prey. When he steps closer to his brother, Kodi finally sees him properly in the gold light of the fire.  
  
His head is shaven except for hair the color of copper on the top of his head. He wears his scars like badges of honor, and when he turns to his brother, she sees the black-blue outline of a wolf prowling up from his neck to rear up over his right ear, snarling down at a dark patch of scarring. Its tail is made of a complex network of knots that disappear under the collar of his tunic. His eyes seem to flash in the firelight, and even though his arms (scarred and bound in muscle like a second set of armor) are crossed over his chest, Kodi knows without having to see it demonstrated that he could slice someone in half before they were able to draw their own weapon against him.  
  
And then she sees the wolf hood, and everything comes into perfect clarity.  
  
He’s one of the _Úlfhédnar_ ; the Wolf-skins, warriors known for their bloodthirst and ferocity on par with the berserkers. The hood is down now, but she can see the gray and white fur around his shoulders, the fangs that press against the back of his neck. Not only could this man slice one of them in half, but he could easily tear them apart with no sword at all.  
  
She can’t stop staring at him, at the sheer force of presence that this man exerts. But she takes in the ice of his eyes, the wolf howling at his scars, and his stance, as if only the gods could challenge him. And he looks back at her with an expression she can’t read. It’s observant, assessing, and threatening, but there’s something more there. She has to look away when the intensity in his expression becomes overwhelming.  
  
The man standing beside him is younger, and clearly the most handsome. He’s dressed in the rich, colorful clothing of a skald—one of the more well-known poets. His tunic is a deep ocean-blue, the hem embroidered with thick vines of silver, and the belt cinching it is made of a rich, dark leather, decorated with beads of silver and colored glass. The cloak over his shoulder is made of black bear fur, clasped with a silver brooch pin the size of a fist, tipped with a small blue gem. His dark hair is neatly combed back, and his beard his perfectly trimmed; all signs of a man very invested in his appearance.  
  
He smiles at her, but nothing about the smile is friendly. There’s a cruel turn to his mouth, a deadly flash in his too-blue eyes, like lightning striking the surface of the sea.  
  
The last of the three is a young woman standing on Jósepr’s left. Of the three, her appearance alarms Kodi only slightly less than the wolf-cloaked warrior. She’s absolutely beautiful, with long, light hair flowing over her shoulders, and a long white dress embroidered in golden stems supporting flowers of every color. She has laughter in her expression, and it reminds Kodi of the stories she was told as a child, of the spirits who sang and laughed in the woods to lure unknowing people in, only for them to never be seen again.  
  
But Kodi sees the blue cloak around her shoulders, lined with white fur, and the staff that she holds in one hand, topped with a brass ornament in the shape of a flower, at the center of which is a pale green gem or piece of glass. Both are emblems of a _seidkona_ , a seer and sorceress with unimaginable power. Kodi knows stories of them as well, how they can rob a man of his senses, send their own spirits across the land in the guise of ghostly animals, can alter the paths of fate, and can kill without lifting a hand to do so.  
  
Kodi realizes then that however worried the court was about Jósepr they had far more to fear from his family.  
  
Bjarkan speaks then, pulling her attention back to the priest. “Bind him,” he says, gesturing to the tarred ropes in her hands.

She looks to Jósepr, at the peculiar look in his eyes, how they seem to burn like embers above the lines of gold on his cheekbones. He holds his hands up to her in something that feels like the mockery of surrender.  
  
“The All-Father will not let you take me,” he says, slower this time, as though she needs to hear it slowly to truly understand.  
  
For reasons she doesn’t understand, Kodi’s eyes go back to the wolf-cloaked man. He might nod to her, or it might just be the bending of the air in the firelight. It may even be her just looking for a sign that she’s doing the right thing, because with the angry crowd that is undoubtedly standing outside, and the dawning realization that they are far out of the realm of control over the situation, she’s not sure if she’s doing the right thing at all.  
  
“Kodi,” Hvitrhestr says quietly. No command follows it. He’s not asking her to bind him, or asking her to walk away. He’s simply urging her to make a decision.  
  
It feels as though an outside force moves her hands, causing them to rise and maneuver the rope around his wrists. She feels as if she’s watching someone else’s hands tying the knot, checking that it can’t be undone so easily.  
  
It’s done, and as soon as Bjarkan and Hvitrhestr turn towards the door, she knows that it’s something she can’t undo without consequences.  
  
“Lead him to the ship,” Bjarkan tells her, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from outside. There’s a roar in her ears, and it gets louder when she puts her hands on Jósepr’s shoulder, feeling fire-warmed skin under her hand. Beside her fingers, she sees a trail of runes that seemed to have been carved into his skin rather than tattooed.  
  
_Módr_ , it reads. Fury. Wrath.  
  
He turns his head just enough to look at her from the corner of his eye, and there is something knowing in his expression. He’s too peaceful for the situation, and it makes Kodi even more certain that she made the wrong decision.  
  
“Sometimes,” he says, just as slow and deliberate as before. “It’s best to just walk away.”  
  
And as they begin the slow walk back to the longship, Kodi desperately wishes that she had.

**Author's Note:**

> [Name guide and glossary](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VBwJFOOfXD8KQoyirGgFKwoUeO7CgkYesEykmENK3_k/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com) and [Viking AU tag](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com/tagged/viking-au), in case anyone is interested!
> 
> [Pílagrímr](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15086018), a fic written by my lovely friend, MJ that is written in Viking!Verse. <333
> 
> [A Viking-themed playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/kitsuneartemis/playlist/5avJu6m624ZOvfBsTQdUsL?si=G0RLcQyyS7WL-0ogXdwHKw) on Spotify made by moi for your listening pleasure.


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